


Ask Me Anything

by Wanderer



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-19
Updated: 2012-07-19
Packaged: 2017-11-10 06:41:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/463347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wanderer/pseuds/Wanderer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The man John Reese was struggles with the man he's trying to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ask Me Anything

**Author's Note:**

> A bit of a tag to "Identity Crisis." This scene has such interesting vibes, I had to write this.

Ask me Anything

by Wanderer

“Wow! You should’ve told me I have so many books!” Finch blinked up at the stacks, sounding slightly in awe of his own library. 

Reese hid a smile. His amusement was easier to hide than the rest of his feelings. Ever since he’d sent Fusco home, John had had to rein himself in tightly, because Finch high on Ecstasy was almost unbearably cute. Eyes wide, head tilted, he looked like a baby bird who’d fallen out of his nest, and couldn’t quite believe the size of the world outside it. 

Finch was about as helpless as a baby bird now, too. 

Reese was already protective of him, but seeing Harold drugged and defenseless ratcheted that instinct up so high, he was almost quivering with it. He’d made Fusco leave right away because he couldn’t stand anyone else seeing Finch like this, or even near him. Though he knew they were alone now, it was all he could do not to prowl the library’s shadowy halls with his gun drawn, just to make sure. 

He was also secretly jealous of anything and everything Finch might’ve said to Fusco, while Fusco drove him back to the library. Though he’d trusted Fusco to protect Finch, and he had, he’d probably be cruel to him the next time they met. He hated Lionel a little, for being there while Finch was so vulnerable. 

If Harold spills any secrets while he’s drugged, they should be mine, Reese thought fiercely.

Mine. The word had so many … interesting implications. Heat gathered under his coat as he considered them, and his heart beat faster. 

Forget it, he told himself harshly. All he was going to do was get Finch settled quietly in the library for the night, then leave as fast as he could. So he followed Finch as he wound slowly through the stacks, trying not to crowd him, but herding him gently towards the little room that he’d discovered the billionaire sometimes used as a bedroom. It was small, and so was its bed, but at least Finch could stretch out there and sleep; and once John left and locked up behind himself, Harold would be safe.

“It’ll be out of your system in a few hours. But you should really drink this, so you don’t get dehydrated,” he said, handing Finch some water bottles and a blanket. Some purely practical help was all he’d allow himself. Though he’d’ve loved to have stayed with Finch a bit longer, to see what he might say. Who knew what interesting things he might be able to find out, while Finch was under the influence?

But that’d be cheating, he thought wryly, and he’d been trying to lead a better life lately. Mostly. Besides, there were other reasons why hanging around Finch in this state would be dangerous. He turned to go.

“You’re leavin’?”

Finch sounded so disappointed that Reese turned back. Just his luck, he thought ruefully, that his prickly little billionaire would turn sweet and talkative with his inhibitions gone. It only deepened his hunger. But if he’d needed more proof of just how high Finch still was, the fact that he’d just dropped a ‘g’ and practically pleaded with him to stay were sure signs of it.

He meant to tell Finch firmly that he was, in fact, leavin’. But if he left Finch alone, how could be sure he’d stay put? Finch really seemed to want to talk. He might head for the nearest bar, the second Reese walked out of the library. And the very idea of Harold wandering into some dark little dive, in the state he was in, made Reese shudder. Change of plans, he thought quickly. 

“No, I’ll stick around. Keep an eye on you,” he said gently. “You should really get some sleep,” he added, as much for his own sake as for Finch’s. The sooner Finch got away from him, the better off they’d both be.

Finch just cocked his head at him. “You don’t wanna talk?”

His blue eyes looked huge, and they stopped Reese in his tracks. 

Fuck. 

Harold looked so hopeful, so wistful – maybe even a little lonely. 

His plea was so unexpected that it slipped past Reese’s defenses, swamped his good intentions under a sharp surge of desire. His eyes narrowed as older, darker habits took hold. He could take advantage of the situation so easily. Hell, he’d been trained to create situations like this, so he could do just that. Clearly, Finch had no idea what he was doing. How incredibly vulnerable he was, alone and drugged with a lethal operative like Reese -- or that he was triggering every predatory instinct the CIA had instilled in John. Finch was too stoned to realize that coaxing Reese to stay with him right now was like baring his throat to a hungry wolf. Or else he didn’t care, which was even worse. That meant he trusted Reese not to harm him. At the moment, though, John wasn’t even close to trusting himself.

He’d been intrigued by Finch from the first. Frustrated by the fact that Finch knew so much about him, and he knew nothing about his boss. The CIA had trained him to kill anyone who learned that much about him, but he couldn’t kill Finch, who’d given him a second chance. So he’d tried to level the playing field by tailing him, surveilling him and prying as cleverly as he could, trying to find out something about Finch’s private life and past. None of it had done him any good. The only thing that he’d managed to learn that seemed solid was that Finch worked for his own company, “hiding in plain sight” as a software engineer. But since Finch quit that soon after John learned of it, that proved useless too. Since John had never dealt well with failure, he’d become more than a little obsessed with learning Finch’s secrets now. There was nothing he wanted more.

Well—there was one thing. John realized he could have that, too. A devious inner voice whispered, I could take it all. Finch and his secrets, right here and now. No one would know -- maybe not even Harold. 

After all, Finch had already been drugged. John could seduce him, and he might not even remember it in the morning. As Harold stared at him, loopy and blinking hopefully, Reese had to tense to keep from reaching for him.

Suddenly, a cold trickle of awareness cut through his arousal. There were certain lines he’d never crossed, not even at his worst. But was this the real reason he’d made Fusco leave? Had some part of him been planning this, even then?

Am I turning into a fucking Andrew Benton? Peter Arndt?

Fear slammed into him, like ice down the back of his neck. He stepped back instinctively, away from Finch. He’d never taken advantage of anyone sexually just for his own pleasure. He’d never wanted to. He’d only done it when he had to, when the CIA ordered him to, and he’d never liked it. So why was he even thinking like this?

He’d thought he was protecting Harold. Had he been isolating him instead? Getting him alone, so he could --

No! His recoil was immediate. I can’t do that. Can’t take Finch, can’t hurt him. Not like that. 

But what if I don’t hurt him, that dark voice whispered in the back of his mind. I don’t want to do that, but I could be gentle. Make it good for him, so good that he’d moan and whimper and beg me for more… So good that he’d tell me everything. Who he really is, where he comes from, what he wants most -- everything.

John knew it was true. The CIA hadn’t just trained him to kill. They’d trained him to use sex to get what he wanted, too, and he was really, really good at it. And Finch was so damn enticing right now…. Wide-eyed and unguarded, and just dying to spend time with him –

John was dying for it too. He nearly took a step forward again. Then something he’d said to Benton floated through his mind: Help me make a good decision.

He’d thought deciding what to do with Andrew was a tough decision. This was even harder. 

The problem was, though Finch had brought him to life again, given him a new and better purpose, Reese couldn’t just wipe out his past. When he’d quit drinking, started eating semi-regularly and even running again to recondition his body, his old instincts and habits had reawakened too. He spent his days trying to help people now. Trying to feel normal again. But he couldn’t escape his history, or what his training had made him into.

What was it about Finch that’d brought this on, made him almost violate one of the last scraps of morality he had? Was he so angry about his failure to learn his secrets that he actually wanted to punish Finch for it? Take what Finch wouldn’t willingly give?

No. That wasn’t it. 

It’s not him. It’s you.

He really didn’t want to hurt Finch – he just wanted to get close to him.

Reese had been too lonely for far too long; and he’d never wanted someone so much who was totally uninterested in him. It was a new experience, and it left him feeling raw. He couldn’t remember being frustrated for this long before. It’d only been a few months, but it already felt like years. He'd been flirting gently with Finch from the start, but Harold seemed as oblivious to it now as he had when John had started. So sometimes when he spent too much time in close proximity to Finch like this, it made his desire almost overpowering. Plus, Finch was usually as tightly guarded as a bank vault, and controlling to boot. So seeing him so uncharacteristically open and biddable was doubly tempting. Beneath his arch façade he was a good man, too, caring and kind. Gentle, like Jessie had been…

And Reese had always been powerfully drawn to his opposites. Good people, who healed and helped rather than broke others. Finch was just so fucking tempting like this...

But Harold was his friend. He’d been helping Reese leave his old self behind and find his way back to being human.

Though Reese’s moral compass had almost been erased, it wasn’t so far gone that he couldn’t see that he needed to get the hell out of the library. Now. But he just stood there, way too close to Finch, staring at him. He couldn’t make himself walk away. Desire warred with his protective instincts, the promise of pleasure a wicked heat that threatened his self control. He wanted Harold so fucking badly. His obsessive neatness had always held an odd allure for John. He longed to mess it up. He’d wanted to rumple Harold since the day they’d met. Wanted to fog his glasses with hot breaths, ruffle his hair, wet his prim little mouth with rough kisses and throw his neat, expensive clothes in careless heaps on the floor, in a trail leading to his little bed… 

Reese snarled at himself, teetering on the edge. No! He gave me my life back. A purpose, a chance to help people, to be something more than a killer. He gave me everything. I can’t. 

He’d done a lot of dark things. Used, tortured, killed. But he’d never raped anyone, much less an innocent -- a friend. 

If I touch Harold now, while he’s high, it’ll be rape.

He’d always hated rapists.

There’ll be another time, he told himself. A better one when Finch isn’t high, and he can make a choice.

The lies you told yourself were always the worst. He had no idea if that was true. If he’d ever have another chance, or any chance at all with Finch; and he wanted to touch Harold so much, he ached right down to his bones. He’d been dead inside, fucking stone cold for so long, and he knew somehow that underneath his formality and tightly buttoned up clothes, Harold was warm. So warm that John could press his cold, scarred, battered body against him and soak it up, like the starving man he was --

Stop. It.

Reese held himself still, set his jaw so tightly that his teeth ground together, until he could throttle his worst impulses, cage the beast that still lived in the darkness behind his eyes. 

He deserves better, he told it; and that wasn’t a lie.

So did she. The words floated up from deep inside him. He thought of Jessica then. How he’d failed her, and how hard he was trying not to do the same with Finch. 

He couldn’t stand the thought of another disaster like that. He’d barely lived through it the first time. If it hadn’t been for Finch, he probably wouldn’t have. He focused on those searingly painful memories, concentrated on them until they quelled his arousal, made his predatory instincts fade away. 

A few minutes of that, and the man who stood before him was once again Harold, his vulnerable friend and boss, instead of a target.

John realized that he’d fisted his hands in his pockets. He spread out his aching fingers and let out a breath. He wasn’t going to touch Finch. Not tonight, anyway. 

Relief settled in like a blanket, but it was mixed with regret. Finch would be safe, but would anything like this ever happen again? Reese wished, sadly and vainly, that Finch would lower his guard around him like this just once, that Finch would reach out to him when he was in his right mind. 

Dream on, he thought. Undrugged, Finch was about as approachable as an electrified fence.

He forced himself to move on, and considered his next move. Though he’d already promised to stay, he obviously couldn’t be trusted with Harold like this. He shouldn’t even be in the same room with him right now. He resolved to settle down in the stacks somewhere, as far away from Finch’s room as he could get and still watch over him. 

Reese realized suddenly that Harold was still watching him, waiting for him to answer. He wondered how long he’d stood there devouring Finch with his eyes, and disgust slid through him.

“You might regret it in the morning,” he said, not quite sure if he was talking to Finch or to himself. His voice was a bit hoarse, but thankfully, Finch was way too stoned to notice. “You’re a very private person. Remember?” Finally, somehow, he found the strength to turn away.

But Finch didn’t seem to want to let it go at that. Reese hadn’t gone very far before Finch called coaxingly, “C’MON! Ask me anything!”

If only.

Reese closed his eyes, a desperate kind of anger spiking inside him. Jesus fuck! He was trying, but Finch was making it so goddamn hard. He couldn’t take much more of this. He swiped a hand across the back of his neck, somehow not surprised to find that he was sweating. When he could speak again, he gritted, “G’night, Harold.” 

Finch would never know how close he’d come, tonight. John would never forget it.

He forced himself to walk away then. But just putting distance between them, after Harold had been practically begging him to stay, was painful. 

He had a question of his own he longed to ask Finch. But for the hundredth time, he didn’t.

Finch muttered something as he walked away. It sounded like, “Good night, Nathan.” 

John’s lips thinned. Typical – another fucking secret. Who the hell was Nathan?

Someone closer to him than you’ll ever be, his little voice taunted.

Reese just kept moving. No sense arguing with the truth. Drugged as he was, Finch must’ve somehow mistaken John for this ‘Nathan’. That was probably why he’d been smiling and trying to get John to talk, and why Harold had felt so safe, being alone with him.

He thought he was with Nathan, not me.

It was a bitter pill to swallow; but Reese was used to those. At least Finch didn’t follow him. 

He told himself he was relieved about that.

If relief could feel like an emptiness that hollowed Reese out inside, then he was. That emptiness was sadly familiar, but it seemed harder to bear than usual tonight. So many secrets, he thought grimly. Finch’s, mine… Between the two of them, they had more riddles than answers, as much shifting sand as solid ground. There were so many questions he wished he could ask Finch, and so few things that he knew for sure. 

Strangely enough, one of his few certainties was the astonishing fact that Finch cared for him. Harold had done what none of Reese’s previous handlers had ever done: saved him. Not just once, but twice. Reese had told himself the first time was just for the job. Because Finch needed someone in the beginning, to help work the numbers. But the second time proved him wrong. Finch was the brains of their outfit, the one who was essential to their operation. Now that he’d gained some experience saving the numbers, Finch didn’t really need Reese anymore. There were lots of mercs out there, lots of other shadow men who Finch could’ve hired to replace him. Still he’d driven into deadly danger one night, to rescue John when he’d been shot.

Reese didn’t need to ask what that meant. Maybe it was why he hadn’t touched Harold tonight, despite the temptation.

Sometimes he dreamed about asking Finch another question, though; and it wasn’t about Harold’s secrets, but his own. He wondered if Finch knew what his little gifts of Sencha green tea and jokes, and larger ones of loyalty, protection and self restraint meant. 

Could you ever love me?

He wanted to know that even more than he wanted to know Finch’s real name. He’d never said it out loud, though. Dreams were one thing, real life was another. In reality, when he was around Finch those words always seemed impossible to say, just like they once had with Jessica, and for the same reason. Right question, wrong moment. 

Reese kept walking, searching restlessly for the right place to set up his sentry post for the night. A place close enough to Finch that he could guard him, make sure that he didn’t try to leave, but far enough away that he wouldn’t be tempted by him again. The narrow corridors between the library stacks made it hard to find. 

Then again, maybe the library’s layout wasn’t the problem. 

Just pick a spot, he told himself finally. What does it matter?

The truth was, for a man like him, there would never be a right moment for questions like that. Or a place close enough, yet far enough away.

He’d learned the hard way that monsters could still love. 

But they had no right to be loved.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are welcome. : )


End file.
